“Smoke of life an’ snakes of purgatory！ Will you justlook at that！ Wood an’ water an’ grass an’ a side-hill！ Apocket-hunter’s delight an’ a cayuse’s paradise！ Cool greenfor tired eyes！ Pink pills for pale people ain’t in it. A secretpasture for prospectors and a resting-place for tired burros，by damn！”
He was a sandy-complexioned man in whose facegeniality and humor seemed the salient characteristics.
It was a mobile face， quick-changing to inward moodand thought. Thinking was in him a visible process. Ideaschased across his face like wind-flaws across the surfaceof a lake. His hair， sparse and unkempt of growth， was asindeterminate and colorless as his complexion. It wouldseem that all the color of his frame had gone into his eyes，for they were startlingly blue. Also， they were laughing andmerry eyes， within them much of the naivete and wonderof the child； and yet， in an unassertive way， they containedmuch of calm self-reliance and strength of purposefounded upon self-experience and experience of the world.
From out the screen of vines and creepers he flungahead of him a miner’s pick and shovel and gold-pan. Thenhe crawled out himself into the open. He was clad in fadedoveralls and black cotton shirt， with hobnailed broganson his feet， and on his head a hat whose shapelessness andstains advertised the rough usage of wind and rain and sunand camp-smoke. He stood erect， seeing wide-eyed thesecrecy of the scene and sensuously inhaling the warm，sweet breath of the canyon-garden through nostrils thatdilated and quivered with delight. His eyes narrowed tolaughing slits of blue， his face wreathed itself in joy， andhis mouth curled in a smile as he cried aloud：
“Jumping dandelions and happy hollyhocks， but thatsmells good to me！ Talk about your attar o’ roses an’
cologne factories！ They ain’t in it！”
He had the habit of soliloquy. His quick-changing facialexpressions might tell every thought and mood， but thetongue， perforce， ran hard after， repeating， like a secondBoswell.
The man lay down on the lip of the pool and drank longand deep of its water. “Tastes good to me，” he murmured，lifting his head and gazing across the pool at the side-hill，while he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Theside-hill attracted his attention. Still lying on his stomach，he studied the hill formation long and carefully. It was apractised eye that travelled up the slope to the crumblingcanyon-wall and back and down again to the edge of thepool. He scrambled to his feet and favored the side-hillwith a second survey.
“Looks good to me，” he concluded， picking up his pickand shovel and gold-pan.
He crossed the stream below the pool， stepping agilelyfrom stone to stone. Where the side-hill touched thewater he dug up a shovelful of dirt and put it into thegold-pan. He squatted down， holding the pan in his twohands， and partly immersing it in the stream. Then heimparted to the pan a deft circular motion that sent thewater sluicing in and out through the dirt and gravel. Thelarger and the lighter particles worked to the surface， andthese， by a skilful dipping movement of the pan， he spilledout and over the edge. Occasionally， to expedite matters，he rested the pan and with his fingers raked out the largepebbles and pieces of rock.
The contents of the pan diminished rapidly until onlyfine dirt and the smallest bits of gravel remained. At thisstage he began to work very deliberately and carefully.
It was fine washing， and he washed fine and finer， with akeen scrutiny and delicate and fastidious touch. At lastthe pan seemed empty of everything but water； but with aquick semicircular flirt that sent the water flying over theshallow rim into the stream， he disclosed a layer of blacksand on the bottom of the pan. So thin was this layer thatit was like a streak of paint. He examined it closely. In themidst of it was a tiny golden speck. He dribbled a littlewater in over the depressed edge of the pan. With a quickflirt he sent the water sluicing across the bottom， turningthe grains of black sand over and over. A second tinygolden speck rewarded his effort.
The washing had now become very fine—fine beyondall need of ordinary placer-mining. He worked the blacksand， a small portion at a time， up the shallow rim of thepan. Each small portion he examined sharply， so that hiseyes saw every grain of it before he allowed it to slideover the edge and away. Jealously， bit by bit， he let theblack sand slip away. A golden speck， no larger than a pinpoint，appeared on the rim， and by his manipulation of thewater it returned to the bottom of the pan. And in suchfashion another speck was disclosed， and another. Greatwas his care of them. Like a shepherd he herded his flockof golden specks so that not one should be lost. At last， ofthe pan of dirt nothing remained but his golden herd. Hecounted it， and then， after all his labor， sent it flying out ofthe pan with one final swirl of water.
But his blue eyes were shining with desire as he rose tohis feet. “Seven，” he muttered aloud， asserting the sum ofthe specks for which he had toiled so hard and which hehad so wantonly thrown away. “Seven，” he repeated， withthe emphasis of one trying to impress a number on hismemory.
He stood still a long while， surveying the hillside. In hiseyes was a curiosity， new-aroused and burning. There wasan exultance about his bearing and a keenness like that ofa hunting animal catching the fresh scent of game.
He moved down the stream a few steps and took asecond panful of dirt.
Again came the careful washing， the jealous herding ofthe golden specks， and the wantonness with which he sentthem flying into the stream when he had counted theirnumber.
“Five，” he muttered， and repeated， “five.”
He could not forbear another survey of the hill beforefilling the pan farther down the stream. His goldenherds diminished. “Four， three， two， two， one，” werehis memory-tabulations as he moved down the stream.